


Countertops

by Rubynye



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Batfamily Feels, Clothed Sex, Dare, First Time, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-01
Updated: 2006-01-01
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4302270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim and Dick and the kitchen counter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countertops

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in a WIP compilation and decided to give it its own post for no good reason.

Countertops

Inspired by <http://www.livejournal.com/community/scans_daily/81905.html> and not least by Megolas, who said "Now I really really want some Dick/Tim kitchen counter sex. Dammit."

Thanks to Petra for making this darker, brighter, and better. Thanks to Betty for Beta Reading

Text:

Tim's arms are on fire.

OK, no, not really. They just feel like they are, columns of searing flesh instead of functional body parts. His head feels fuller and fuzzier with each moment upside-down, his ankles are aching from pointing his feet straight up, and his palms are sweating against the smooth counter. If Tim needed a reminder that he's not a natural acrobat, and he didn't, this is it.

But Dick is standing behind him, hands an inch from his thighs, murmuring, "that's it, just a couple more minutes, Tim, you're doing great." Tim only has to hold this handstand for ten minutes, and Dick asked him to, Dick who does handstand pushups and walks on his hands as easily as on his feet. Tim can do this. Even if sweat is running off his forehead into his hair. Even if his arms are on fire.

Even if he's an idiot.

Nine minutes ago, while Tim climbed on the counter to reach the sugar, Dick said, "when I was a kid Alfred couldn't keep me off the counters, unless I was on the chandeliers." Tim could hear the grin even with his back turned, and he probably deserved a point for continuing to rummage the cabinet rather than glancing back over his shoulder. He definitely awarded himself a point for not dropping anything when he heard, "I dare you to do a handstand, right there."

Tim doesn't take dares. "Why would I want to do that?" He passed the sugar back without looking, expecting to hear something reasonable about upper body strength or the story of a narrow escape from some supervillain's trap.

Instead he got silence, until he failed his wisdom roll and turned around. Then he got Dick, one eyebrow raised, fifteen kinds of trouble in that smirk. "If you hold it for a full ten minutes I'll give you a reward."

Tim should have jumped down off the counter. Vague plans involving baking cookies and planning patrol fluttered at the edges of his mind. Instead, as he replied, "It's pointless macho posturi--" his voice cracked, hard, the way it hadn't in weeks. Just thinking of it now makes Tim's cheeks burn, and he really needs to learn how not to blush. Sometime when Dick doesn't grin at him, bright and wicked at once. "Just posturing. I don't see any point to it."

Besides those on Dick's gleaming teeth. "Oh, I'll make it worth your while."

Tim opened his mouth, realized if he tried his voice would break spectacularly, and shrugged as nonchalantly as he didn't feel. And climbed up into a handstand.

That was nearly ten minutes ago. Now Tim's shuddering, his arms shaking so hard he can feel damp locks of hair slapping his face. "Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen..." Dick counts, an eternity of heartbeats between each second. "Four, three, two, one, good job!"

As if on a voice-activated switch, Tim's arms give out and he topples over. For a moment all he can see is the floor coming up fast to meet him hard; then he stops, gently, because Dick catches him. "Shit," Tim's face burns worse than his arms. Ten whole minutes and he blew it. "Dick, I'm---"

"Just fine." Dick squeezes Tim against his chest, his broad, hard, warm chest, for a heart-stopping moment, then sets him right side up on the counter. "In fact, that was really impressive." Dick puts his hands on Tim's shoulders. "Considering where you were a year ago."

"But I--" Dick's hands are sliding, stroking down Tim's arms, and the rough warmth on aching muscles makes him shiver. He stammers and has to start over. "But, Dick--"

"So about that reward." Dick's grin sharpens dangerously as he leans in, squeezing Tim's tingling hands, and Tim feels his lips part entirely without his will. He must look like he's been smacked in the face, but Dick--

Oh, God, Dick is unzipping his fly. "Oh. Oh, you don't--" he never says "have to", because Dick doesn't give him the chance; when Dick goes down in one smooth motion, all Tim's words collapse into one shocked bleat. Dick's mouth redefines _hot_ and _wet_ , and when he sucks the pull drags Tim's hips up, rolls his eyes back, sweeps the thoughts out of his mind..

Then Dick stops, pulling back just far enough to take his heat away. Tim shivers, feeling like he's going to die, his heart slamming against his ribs. He tries not to want, doesn't let himself beg, but...

Tim's eyes focus on Dick's tumble of hair, on Dick's face as he looks up, glowing pink over his cheekbones, eyes bright rings of blue around wide pupils, so beautiful it hurts. Tim's throat just clamps shut on any possible words, and Dick's grin cracks his mind like a windowpane. "But I promised, little brother. And I want to." And he goes down again.

"Nngh," Tim moans around the fist he hadn't even noticed shoving into his mouth. He dimly hears the bang of his head hitting the cabinet behind him. He can't feel it, or anything else except Dick sucking, bobbing the ring of his lips on him, holding his hips in big hard hands, fingers curled under his thighs. Dick's pleased hum reverberates up Tim's spine till his brain fragments, and when Dick twists his tongue Tim's eyes cross.

When Tim can see again, all he sees is the light on Dick's glossy black hair. His fingers ache to tangle in it, clutch it, so he folds his hand into a tight fist and whimpers and bangs his head against the cabinet till the bottles inside clank together. He's going to come. There's no way he can hold it off. It's as if Dick is pulling his brain out, and Tim struggles to warn him, groans and gasps, "Oh, oh, God, Dick I'm sorry, I--"

Dick just makes a muffled, half-swallowed sound of encouragement and sucks harder, and Tim utterly fails to breathe and comes, pressing his head back against the cupboard, arching into the pull of Dick's mouth.

And then he groans like he's being hurt, because Dick's licking him through the wrenching aftershocks. With every stroke of Dick's tongue Tim shakes, and his eyes won't open, and Dick is humming around him as if he tastes good. And that's... if Tim could recover thought at all, perhaps he could consider that possibility. If he could think, if Dick weren't pulling off slowly enough to make him gasp. If Dick didn't grab his shoulders and kiss him.

Dick's mouth is hot and wet and slippery salty bitter; Tim realizes that's himself he's tasting, himself on Dick, and it staggers him. For a moment he can't even move, can't do anything but let himself be kissed, let Dick trace his mouth and lick his tongue. Then Dick bites his lip gently, huffing a tiny laugh, and Tim can't _not_ move, he has to clutch Dick and kiss him back, winding an arm around Dick's neck, wrapping his legs around Dick's waist.

Eventually Tim pries a hand free. The effort feels monumental. Tim's body, which he's been training into his obedient tool for a year now, doesn't want to obey anything right now but the pull of Dick's hands. Still, even from the other direction and this distracted, he knows he can unbutton a fly, and Dick doesn't even notice till the second button. Then he startles, his back stiffening, but by the time Tim can think of stopping his fingers have gone on without his brain, undoing all the buttons, nudging into Dick's fly. They barely fit, and the first brush of Tim's knuckles against damp wiry hair makes them both shake.

"Tim." His name sounds different in Dick's voice, like a secret word in another language. "Tim. God." Not least because Dick's speaking against his mouth, lips moving over Tim's, the words meshing into Tim's helpless gasping. "Tim." Dick swallows, audibly, tangibly, and his voice is firmer and thinner when he says, "You don't have to."

 _But I want to,_ Tim remembers, maybe a little indignantly. He can't quite say that. But he can drag himself back from Dick's mouth, watching Dick's openly stunned face till he blinks and focuses, and Tim can smirk as Dick's blue eyes widen and kiss him again hard enough to be heard.

And he can shudder, when Dick moans against his mouth. He can't not.

Tim has done more difficult things than keeping his coherence as that moan vibrates through him, as Dick's hands dig warmly into his shoulders, even if he can barely remember his own name let alone whatever it was he did. He reminds himself that he can keep thinking, even though, "oh God oh my God" is on loop in his mind and he's so glad he can't talk because that's probably all he'd succeed in whimpering. Instead Tim kisses Dick awkwardly and messily and Dick just kisses back like he's witholding nothing, like the thought never crosses his mind to hold back.

Tim isn't going to lose himself to this kiss, though his mouth throbs and the edges of his mind are shredding, though Dick's arms are around him tighter than they've ever been. He has to make himself think. Because Dick is hard in his hand, and Tim could jack him if he could make his hand _move_ , if his fingers could stop shakily tracing the velvet-damp curve and this one pulsing vein along one side. But Dick wants more, he ought to have more, and, God, _Tim_ wants more. Dick has him so tightly he can only breathe to Dick's gasping rhythm, and this is like all the hugs Dick has given him back to the first, all rolled together. It all just makes Tim want more, want to be closer, want to do more for Dick. If he could drop to his knees, but that would mean making Dick let go of him--

Dick's groan is just like and the furthest thing from pain, and his hands on Tim's hips press up his back and down his ass, flares of feeling as if he's bringing the nerves to life. Tim winds his legs tighter, hitching his hips forward, and Dick tugs his leg up a bit, and his hand is pinned between their bodies, and Tim shivers.

He shivers again as Dick kisses his cheek, fast and hard, and his jaw, and his neck, and Tim can't stop shaking, and Dick bites him, low over the pulse in his throat, a jolt straight through to his cock. "Fuck me," Tim thinks, if he's even still thinking in words.

The words are so hoarse it takes Tim a moment to realize he heard himself say it, and apparently there _is_ enough blood left above his waist for a nuclear-level blush. Maybe it was mashed out of comprehension against Dick's mouth--

"What?" Dick shudders against Tim and gasps and shakes his head. No such luck. "You want-- you know what you're saying?" He sounds almost disbelieving.

Tim knows what he said, and he can say it again. Squeezing his eyes shut he ignores his blush and Dick's damp hot mouth and says, "Fuck me, Dick. I want, I want you to."

There's a cold endless second for Tim to anticipate Dick pulling free and backing away. But Dick knocks Tim's head against the cabinet with the force of his kiss, and they're both clawing Dick's jeans off and Tim's, and Dick's back ripples beneath Tim's bared legs and clutching hands. Dick kisses Tim hard and dizzyingly, till Tim wants to gasp and his eyes are rolling back and he never wants to let go. When Dick pulls his mouth away Tim stops himself from leaning forward to follow and tries not to resent his body for sucking in air.

At least Dick is gasping, too. "God. Man. Um, lube?"

Point. "Ah." Tim just went through this cabinet. He pries his hands off Dick, reaches up, and rummages. Dick sucking wet marks on his neck is the best kind of unhelpful, but he can concentrate enough to find--- there. A bottle of olive oil tips forward into Tim's hand.

Dick's eyes flare, and his voice is rough and wonderful, but he still asks, "Tim, are you---"

"Yes." Tim kisses Dick the way Dick had kissed him, hard and conclusive, making himself put everything into it with no reserve, and Dick shivers. It almost feels wrong for Dick to be shivering, It's nearly incomprehensible that he can affect Dick like this, and it's even more strange how amazing it feels. If Tim can just keep his head together, just a little longer... he fumbles with the slippery bottle one-handed, because the fingers of the other won't disentangle from Dick's soft thick hair, and when Dick twists off the bottle top oil splashes into his hand.

Almost, but not quite. Tim's probably done more difficult things than setting the bottle down, setting the top on it, and twisting it shut, all while being kissed as thoroughly as Dick always does everything, but he certainly can't remember right now what they were. The only thing he remembers is to bite his lip when Dick strokes him, back and forth, so he can think against the pleasure, enough to breathe and clutch Dick's shoulders for leverage and buck down onto his finger.

Then he can't think at all.

Dick moans into his mouth, softer and even more wrenching than a groan. Tim writhes in a way he didn't know he knew how to do, and Dick's finger slides deeper, and this isn't perfect only because he wants more. He bucks, and Dick presses hot against his inner thigh and gives him more, gives him two fingers that stretch him just a little past his limits, that make him wince and gulp air and barely keep his gasp below a scream.

It's the wince, of course. Dick pulls back, and Tim almost grabs him, almost pushes to meet him again before he catches himself. For once it's holding still that feels strange. "Tim, Tim, the bottle, this isn't enough---"

Tim catches Dick's lip between his teeth, a little ruthlessly, but he can feel Dick pulse against his thigh as he sucks him into another kiss. He bats at the bottle, but it tips over and rolls away, and Tim is not disengaging to go after it. " _Please_." His voice is strained and high and horrible in his own ears, but Dick just pulls him closer, wrapping one arm tight around him. Tim slides his face along Dick's cheek, soft beneath the prickly shadow, till he fetches up against Dick's throat, one cheek against his chin, the other against his T-shirt, a short smooth scar across his lips. Tim pushes his face in and hangs on as Dick picks him up easily, one arm around his back, one hand under his thigh.

Tim should look to see where they're going, because if they wreck the kitchen past their ability to fix it they'll have to answer to Alfred whenever he returns, but all he can do is breathe Dick's sweaty warmth and cling to him. Dick is warmth and solid sinew against him, and he could easily stop thinking and just sink into the way Dick feels.

With all that warmth against his front, the fridge is cold against Tim's back when Dick shoves him up against it. Tim can feel something digging into one side of his spine, but he doesn't really want to take the risk of derailing the proceedings. His T-shirt rides up, scraping maddeningly at his too-hard nipples, and the fridge is distractingly nubbly, for perhaps a moment, but he's being pressed against it by Dick, who's shaking again, and hitching his leg up a little more, and Tim sinks his hands into Dick's hair and breathes and holds on, Dick has him, the muscles in his arms steady and hard as he pushes Tim up against gravity and the pull of Tim's thighs around his waist. Tim thinks of everywhere he could touch Dick, now that he has permission, now that he's got the chance, but his fingers won't untangle from his thick soft hair, uncurve from around his head.

"Tim, Tim." Dick keeps repeating his name as if it's something special, as his forehead tips forward against Tim's; he must be looking at what he's doing, nudging Tim with unerring aim, and Tim consciously relaxes as much as he can, which isn't much. He can't make his eyes open, or let go of Dick's hair. The stuttery slide of Dick into him is heat and pressure edging into pain, and Tim tries not to wince as he pushes to meet Dick, and swallows and breathes and---

And gasps anyway, loud and ragged. Dick pushes, groaning, and Tim can feel his forehead furrow, can feel his own body pressing open. It feels, Dick feels... Tim's mouth falls open and a whimpery moan falls out. "Tim," Dick moans in return, and thrusts again, and lines of fire crackle across the inside of Tim's eyelids, and he never... he expected it to be overwhelming, but this, tangled up with Dick, closer to him than he's been to anyone...

Tim clings to Dick, unable to stop making senseless noises that can't possibly be passed off as words. He pries his eyes open to glance at Dick's face, eyes closed, lips parted, red flush spilling down his cheeks, before the next thrust rocks through him to shut them again. And Dick--- Tim can feel all of him, from his short hard breaths to his sleek muscles to his scars. Tim feels unfinished against those scars.

Maybe as Robin he'll have some one day, but not now, not when Dick's got him. He should help, he shouldn't just writhe mindlessly; he turns his face against the fridge, and it's cool enough to bleed the heat steaming his brain down to something bearable. If he can just think... but he can't think, not with Dick breathing broken words against his throat, "yes" and "please" and "Tim" and "Robin" like a flurry of gut punches. The handle denting his back feels incredibly distant compared to the feel of Dick, close as a heartbeat.

Dick loosens his grip on Tim's thigh, hitching the other up further, and the change in angle--- Tim throbs under the next stroke, his vision whites out, and he barely notices the heel of his foot brushing Dick's back, piling up the T-shirt. Dick writhes and tips his head up, sliding his sweaty hot cheek against Tim's; when he licks Tim's ear and groans, "come for me, Robin," the answering shiver is the furthest thing from cold.

Dick's hand on Tim's cock is like an electric shock of pleasure. Tim's whole body jerks, and Dick murmurs in his ear, "that's it, Tim, come on, come for me." Warmer than an order, firmer than a plea, and Tim couldn't deny Dick if he wanted to; pressing his foot against the back of Dick's thigh, Tim arches into his touch and comes in his hand. It feels like it's breaking Tim into his constituent bits, like he'll shatter and blow away, but Dick's got him, holding him with tight fingers, growling low and pleased into his ear.

"Tim, God, Tim, Robin, Tim," between hard little bites to Tim's ear. Dick flattens Tim against the fridge as he thrusts harder and more erratically, and his words break into a wordless gasping wail as he comes shuddering. Tim doesn't know if it hurts, doesn't think he can breathe, and doesn't ever want it to stop.

"Oh, _Tim_." Pushing up a little tugs at his sweaty skin stuck to the fridge; Dick pulls away from him, pulls out of him, and Tim bites his cheek so he won't wince. Dick strokes Tim's legs with damp hot hands, examining him, measuring how much he's shaking, so Tim takes a deep breath and grabs for a little control. After a moment he shudders to a stop and makes his ankles unhook, and when Dick sets him gently down on his feet he doesn't let his knees shake.

Dick leans over Tim, one hand on the fridge. He looks at the other, and Tim looks up at him, at the smile he's trying to tamp down and the wrinkle between his eyebrows. Dick's handprints throb on his thighs, and the fridge handle's imprint over his kidney feels like it must be glowing the same sort of red as the bite pulsing on his neck. He's going to be able to feel this well after he goes home.

"Tim," Dick exhales, and breathes in, and his smile is overcast. "I, uh, got a little carried away."

"I'm the one who was carried." Tim has never been good at banter, and now he feels himself blush, but it makes Dick's grin brighten appropriately. Tim tries on a grin too, and maybe it's the whole postcoital thing but it fits surprisingly well.

And Dick's hand isn't on the fridge anymore, it's warm on Tim's cheek, pushing up into his hair. "Are you okay?"

The right word would be much louder and brighter, but 'okay' will do. Tim nods, and Dick's hand strokes down his throat to his shoulder, and Dick's smile is widening though he shakes his head. "Tim. You, you shouldn't-- I shouldn't--"

"I'm fine." Tim can't decide what to do with his hands with all of Dick to touch and Dick's hand gently rubbing his shoulder. "I'm--" He can't find a word that conveys the way he can feel his disobedient body all the more vividly, feel the blood rushing through him and the tingle in his muscles and the nearly alarming pound of his heart under Dick's hand. "I really--" Dick's forehead is furrowing, and it shouldn't be, Tim needs to say the right thing, but he can't even breathe.

But Dick's expression clears, and his hand reaches Tim's waist. "You're-- you're something else. Your legs aren't even shaking. Mine did. " Dick grabs the hem of Tim's T-shirt, and Tim helps him peel it off.

Dick smudges his messy hand across his own T-shirt and tugs that off too. Tim's almost disappointed, but Dick has on a wifebeater underneath, so he gets to take it off him. He has to rock forward on his toes to do it, but Dick's grin emerges from it wide and beaming. "I guess you're not going home yet," Dick says, a little hopefully.

There is nothing at home like this, like Dick. "I've been taught the fine points of climbing through windows." The grin still feels like it belongs on Tim's face.

Dick's grin is bright enough to light the room. "But do you know how to climb people?"

Another dare. Tim jumps and wraps both arms around Dick's neck, damp smooth skin under his hands, his legs winding around Dick's waist the way they had a few minutes ago. Dick sighs, like he thought there was any chance Tim would leave, as if he needs for Tim to stay, and his hands press into Tim's back, sliding down till one cups Tim's ass. It feels possessive. It feels wonderful.

And Dick just looks at him, as disbelieving as his sigh and warm as his hands. "Against the fridge..." His smile tilts rueful for a moment, eyes shadowed, before he looks up again. "What else do you want me to do to you, Tim? What would you _like_? "

"Everything," Tim tries to say, but his voice won't work. Dick understands, and kisses him gently, rocking them in place as he steps out of his jeans; still kissing Tim, Dick leaves their clothes in a pile on the floor and carries Tim out of the kitchen.


End file.
